When She Found Out
by Miss Becky
Summary: Buffy finds out Angel has a child. Story takes place the night after Smashed. Spoilers for S6 of BtVS and S3 AtS.


When She Found Out  
  
Author: Miss Becky. You can write to me at beckyg19@yahoo.com  
Disclaimer:All characters and events owned by Joss Whedon and Mutant Enemy.  
Summary: Buffy finds out Angel has a child. Story takes place the night after Smashed. Spoilers for S6 of BtVS and S3 AtS.  
Note: This story came from wondering how Joss and Co. will have Buffy learn about Angel's son, and how she will handle it. All feedback is appreciated.  
  
  
****  
  
He smirks as she enters the crypt. "Couldn't stay away, could ya, luv?" The words are no sooner out of his mouth than he regrets them. She looks paler than usual, her eyes wild, the panicky, glazed stare of an animal caught in a trap. "Slayer?"  
  
Her head whips up and he flinches from the pain in those eyes, curses both her and those eyes. That she can still do this to him, make him care with just a simple look...it is a singular power, one only she possesses.   
  
"I--" She paces the crypt, then abruptly sinks into a chair, the strength run out of her limbs.  
  
He tries to imagine what has brought her to this, what has finally happened to break the brittle shell that has surrounded her since her return from the grave. Not even their frenzied lovemaking could pierce that shell, and he has spent the better part of the day feeling not a little chagrined over that, wondering what he did wrong.  
  
He sits across from her, respectfully giving her the space that no one else seems to understand she needs these days. "What's wrong?"  
  
Buffy lifts her head and stares into the distance. "I got a phone call today," she says, her voice as faraway as her gaze. "From Angel."  
  
He rolls his eyes, trying unsuccessfully to stomp out the anger and envy that rise in him at that name. "Right. That's just what I want to hear -- what you and the ponce talked about." He stands up and heads for the door, ready to show her out, by force if necessary. "Thanks for stopping by. So glad we had this talk."  
  
"He has a son."  
  
The words are known to him, but put together, they do not make sense. "What?"  
  
"Angel. Has a. Son." She says it with wonder this time. "With Darla."  
  
He shuts the door and takes a few, faltering steps toward her. "Luv?" He wants to remind her that what she is saying is impossible, but something in the bewildered hurt on her face stops him. She is a hair breadth from snapping, but which emotion she chooses when that happens is still unknown -- she could stake him as easily as fall into his arms, and he does not want to unduly influence her one way or the other.  
  
"How can that be?" She looks at him, confusion drawing her brows together. "How...?" She runs out of words.  
  
"Don't know," he says heavily, and takes his seat again, across from her. They both need space now. "But he always did have the attention of the Powers. Must be a bloody prophecy or some other rot."  
  
"A son," Buffy says in that same hollow voice. "A human baby, with a soul."  
  
Spike winces. He has never liked his grandsire, but now he would cheerfully stake Angel and dance on the resulting pile of dust. Does the poof have no clue at all how much he hurts the Slayer?  
  
"I always knew...we would never...I mean, I..." Tears stand in her blue eyes now. "I know I'll never have a baby. But somehow, it was better, when I thought that he couldn't, either. It was something that connected us, a pain we shared. But now, everything's changed."  
  
He cocks his head to one side, studying her with the soft expression he reserves only for her. "What makes you think you'll never have a kid?"  
  
She snorts, and he can be happy that she is showing at least some emotion. "Spike, please. I'm the Slayer. I was born with an expiration date."  
  
He shrugs. "We all are."  
  
A frank, appraising light enters her eyes, and her gaze sharpens. Suddenly he is uncomfortable, knowing he won't like what she says next. "Did you ever want children? When you were human, I mean."  
  
It's on the tip of his tongue to make a flippant remark about how much vampires want children, all right, and he restrains himself with an effort. She has asked a genuine question, and he has always been honest with her, a trait that has gotten him into trouble far too many times for him to change now.   
  
"Don't rightly know. I don't really remember much about that life, if you must know. Tried real hard to forget it, once I changed." He sighs, using the unnecessary breath to give him time to think, to sift through moldy memories.   
  
He supposes he did once, although he cannot honestly recall. Did he, perhaps, imagine having children with that bitch, Cecily? Did he fantasize about picnics in the country, two laughing children playing on the grass, their smilingly indulgent mother doing needlework, while he sat under a tree and composed poetry? Probably he did -- it seems like the nancy-boy rot William would have dreamed of, but he can't be sure.   
  
Still trying to frame a suitable answer, he looks up and sees that Buffy has already turned away, having accepted his first response. The air of melancholy that has hovered about her since her return is heavier tonight, and Spike can think of nothing to say to her. He has never pictured her as a mother before, and he is still trying to wrap his mind around the images the word conjures up.  
  
A child. Here, again, is something else he cannot give her, another failure. She was right when she said he was not a man, but a thing.  
  
"I think I did," he says, surprising them both.   
  
She starts, and looks at him. "What?"  
  
He clears his throat, feeling unaccountably nervous. "I think I did. Want kids, that is." He shrugs. "Maybe that's why I want to protect the Niblet."  
  
Mentioning Dawn only serves to remind her that she needs to go home; he can see it in her eyes and wishes violently that he had not said anything. All at once everything is different. The confiding is over with. She stands up. "I should go. I can't leave Dawn alone."  
  
"The witch can take care of her," he says hastily, standing up.  
  
"No, I--I should get back."  
  
He steps in front of her, placing himself between her and the door. "Stay."  
  
She stiffens, and he knows she is thinking about last night. He wonders if she is as bruised as he is.  
  
"I can't," she whispers.  
  
He hears, "Convince me."  
  
He touches her cheek, lightly, ready to snatch his hand back if she explodes into violence. But she accepts the touch, and he lets his fingers curl around her chin, lifting her face. "Stay," he repeats, and kisses her.  
  
Immediately she melts against him, her mouth opening under his, her arms twining about his neck. He stifles a groan, and buries his hands in her hair, imprisoning her.  
  
The kiss is scorching, the heat warming him; her racing heart is pressed to his chest so he can imagine it beats for him, too -- in these precious moments he can almost pretend he is human, the kind of man she could let herself love. When she pulls away to drag in a shuddery breath he is loath to let her, to lose the contact, and the fantasy.  
  
She does not protest as he picks her up, holding her easily in his arms. She wants it as much as he does, and if she is not allowed to say it, she can at least consent through silence. He understands this, as he has always understood her. He does not hold that silence against her. Not yet.  
  
As soon as she is lying down, she draws him down to her, and he goes willingly. There will be nothing to show for this night of passion, no love created in this darkness. He has no life to give her, but even if he could, would she want it?  
  
  
****  
  
END 


End file.
